


Heat

by twoandfour



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoandfour/pseuds/twoandfour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heat makes people do crazy things. But this... whatever this is... might not be so crazy after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

It was hot. Really hot. So hot that the whole of the populace of London seemed to have gone either catatonic or completely mad. It was easily 32C in the shade, what there was of it to be found. The streets were practically empty and the concrete shimmered in the distance like Hell itself was rising up through the cracks. 

All the windows in the flat had been flung open, shades raised high. A woman of dubious repute flashing a little leg to attract an unsuspecting cross-breeze. Two tall glasses of ice water sweated onto his coffee table. He wondered about rings and stains for a hot second and then decided it was too hot to care. 

Not every flat in London came equipped with air conditioning. It didn’t generally get hot enough year in and year out for its inclusion to make a difference. When he’d picked out this particular one (after achieving some measure of success), the fact that it had air conditioning had been incidental. He’d liked it for its location, its character; the space itself. 

But now that the damn incidental thing was broken and at the very worst possible time for it to be, he found he missed it, and bitterly.

Tom honestly didn’t know what to do with himself. “Half Frost Giant,” he thought, and managed to stifle a manic giggle. “Not now, Loki.” Occasionally, he had to be forceful.

He stretched his long limbs out on the sofa, ensuring that no one part of his body was in direct (sweaty) contact with another, and allowed himself to wonder what would have happened if Benedict hadn’t happened to be driving past at the exact moment he was. Tom had tried take his usual morning run and had nearly passed out midway through. Benedict had been driving by just as Tom was visibly faltering, and had summarily poured water down his throat, packed him in the back of his Jag, and driven him back to his flat; and here they both still sat. 

He really should’ve known better, considering what had happened in Atlanta, he thought. Ooooh, and wasn’t that the wrong thing to think about. He palmed his face in the guise of wiping a fresh layer of perspiration from it as the texture and scent of fresh peaches (and the slick wet of peach-colored flesh) invaded his sense-memory. 

He’d never been good with intense heat, but there’d been repercussions after that one particularly glorious afternoon. Namely, heat at certain waking hours now made him horny as all Hell, and it really, really didn’t help that his mate/costar/savior, the bloke currently sitting in the other corner of the sofa clad only in his pants (they’d mutually decided to strip down to basics and watch telly), was one of the most perfect human specimens he’d ever seen. Met. Both.

In fact, it was the combination that was so attractive. Benedict was beautiful in ways that a lot of people didn’t (wouldn’t) consider beautiful. His face was long and oddly shaped, but it was the single most expressive face he’d ever seen. When lit with emotion, it could be endearing or intellectual or bloody terrifying. In repose, it could be angelic, or reptilian, or both, or something else. His body was long and firm, not necessarily broad in any particular place, maybe not entirely symmetrical. His skin tone was almost always somewhere between pasty and pale, and he had the most enormous hands. He was occasionally awkward, and then sometimes he moved with such grace and elegance that Tom wanted to weep for the beauty of it. He looked both incredibly young and impossibly ancient, and had the curmudgeonly impatience of an old man right alongside the dick-and-fart humor of a 13 year old boy.

But what really got to Tom was that all of this was wielded and carried within a person who was wise, private, learned, innocent, carefree, and joyful. Benedict may have been a constant contradiction, but he was always utterly himself. And he was gorgeous. 

Those quirky lips that made improbable shapes and spoke hilarious, profound words. He wanted them on him. Those almond-shaped eyes - the color of which was impossible to tell, and which held entire Universes within them- he wanted those on him, too. He wanted the full Benedict experience. Especially right here, right now, when they were both already half-naked, and the heat was addling his brain enough to make it seem like a really, really good idea.

And now words were coming out of his mouth.

“Moustache.” Mumbled.

“Mmm?” from the other end of the sofa.

Tom’s eyes lit with remembrance. He laughed a signature “Ehehehe”. He shifted, crooking his left leg slightly, turning a bit to face Benedict. 

“War Horse. God, that awful moustache. You carried it, though. Better than I ever could’ve.” Wide-eyed, self-deprecating smile. Not that it wasn’t honest. He could Princess Di it up all he wanted, let his big blue puppy-dog eyes do the talking, but he’d never be anything less than honest. 

Benedict rolled his eyes up into his noble forehead and swiped two lovely, long fingers along his upper lip. “Honestly, mate, felt like I was wearing a sick squirrel. Between that and Atonement... Just, no more fucking moustaches. Without beards, anyway.” 

Ben glanced over with a decadent smirk, and Tom caught what he could’ve sworn was an absolutely wicked twinkle in his eye. Of course, those eyes almost always looked wicked. There was a particular faction of fangirls who thought the man was innocent as a baby and pure as the driven snow, and Tom could absolutely not imagine where they were coming from at all. This was a man who knew things. 

He smiled and tore his gaze away, a difficult feat, and let it wander back to the telly. Fascinating, this... whatever it was they were watching. Some daytime chat show. There were makeovers. He shifted a bit once more and swallowed, hiking his right leg up to rest its foot on a sofa cushion and pulling his pants aside to vent. So hot. 

“So...” Benedict cleared his throat. Tom tried to look over but found he couldn’t. A bead of sweat made its way from his scalp all the way down his cheek and he reached up to brush it away, willing his hand to stop trembling.

He felt Ben’s eyes narrow and that laser-focus hone in on his face. 

“So, erm... Are you thinking of someone specific, or does the heat make you that hard in general?”

What? Was he- without thinking, he reached down to check. God, he was granite. His eyes rolled back and he involuntarily groaned at the sensation of a hand to himself through his soft cotton pants. 

Color immediately flooded his cheeks and he gasped. The corners of his eyes turned down, and threads of shame worked their way up through his veins. Never in his entire life had he wanted more to crawl away into a hole somewhere so he could die uninterrupted. Of course everyone who really knew him knew that he found all sorts of people beautiful and sexy, but this was his friend. Ben was someone who trusted him, relied on him. Someone he’d never known to really stray from the safe side of things. 

He tore his hand away and began the process of mentally and emotionally collecting himself, hoping against hope that his friend would be able to chalk this up to a one-off. A by-product of the ridiculous heat; temporary insanity. He flexed the muscles in his legs in preparation to stand.

“Where are you going?” 

Soft, genuine curiosity. That voice had dropped at least a half an octave. It arrested his movement and his eyes flew open, even if they stayed fixed in front of him. He blinked, stared straight ahead. A hundred scenarios flew through his brain; none of them ended well. Until:

“Tom.” Like thunder. And it may have coincided with actual thunder from outside the flirtatious windows, and wasn’t that funny? He gathered what air was left and challenged himself to turn his head. 

There they were, those Universes. Grey-green-blue, fixed on him, pupils blown black and wide. Head cocked at a cocky angle. 

Then the gorgeous lips were moving and time was honey dripping off a spoon. “Show me.”

Certainty.  
He closed his eyes and whined and no more fooling around. Reaching a hand in, he pulled out his absolutely aching, throbbing cock, and gave it a somewhat tentative stroke. There was a disturbance in the air near him, something like a gasp. It forced him to slide his thumb along, working the foreskin gently down. 

“Christ.” A sound like redemption, and he exhaled a moan and gripped himself tighter, and slid his hand back up and then down and up, pulling his foreskin over the head of his cock like a shy,  
modest hood, and squeezing. 

“Oh.” That one sound dragged out into multiple syllables and he risked a look over. He shuddered and couldn’t help the wanton sound that came out of his mouth. Benedict had his own cock out, and was grasping it in one of his lovely hands, and his eyes were hooded and still fixed in Tom’s direction. 

“Oh, GOD.” Tom pumped his hand on his cock, half in arousal and half in sheer disbelief, as he watched Ben arch up and return the gesture. His cock was.... god, it was gorgeous. Long and thick, curved slightly upwards where his own was straight as an arrow, and they were both of them leaking. 

“How long?” It was a breathless question and accompanied by a long slide down and a quick pump up that left Tom unable to look away.

“How--- nnnng. How long...what?” he asked, stupidly, knowing the question but lacking the ability to properly tease at the moment.

“How-” A gasp, a slide, a tease; voice pitched high. Tom smirked, enjoying the reciprocation, knowing he wasn’t the only one affected by the proceedings.

But leave it to Benedict to ruin his fun and heighten it.

“How long have you imagined this?” The voice rumbled over the air, vibrating across the threads of the sofa, settling into his chest. He stared up, startled. Kindness met his eyes; lust and knowing. He studied it for a moment, memorizing it, tucking it away. 

He exhaled. “Since...” He pulled up slowly, catching his own guitar-calluses on his sensitive spots, and worked his hand back down, watching Ben’s eyes glow and soften. “Since I watched Sherlock. You were amazing.” He said it simply, honestly. 

“Your Loki.” Ben growled it, but it was no less sincere. “I cried.”

There was a pause.

“Fuck you.”  
“Eheheheh!!”

And they were both leaning in towards one another and stroking themselves furiously. 

Tom released his right hand and began working himself with his left. Almost unconsciously, he reached between them with his right hand, but at the last minute, stopped himself short. An Old Harrovian and an Old Etonian enjoying a mutual wank. This was all that was. Familiar. There were lines not to be crossed. 

He flexed his fingers, close to closing them round himself again. 

“You can,” a deep breath, barely a whisper. “If... you want.”

Tom looked up into Universes despite himself. “Do you... Is it...”

“Yes.” Chins gathered and small smile on display in absolute certainty.

A pause. Breath.

“Will- can you...”

“Yes.”

Benedict reached over and wrapped a hand, starting with the little finger and working upward, around Tom’s length. He hissed at the warmth. So much warmth against his already too hot body, but it wasn’t at all unwelcome. Ben gasped, such a lovely sound, and worked down and then up, and then Tom had no choice. No choice at all.

He leaned over and wrapped his own hand around Benedict’s lovely cock and reached up to place his thin lips against full, almost obscene ones.

They groaned their delight. Yes, this was good. So very, very good. Mouths moved and teased. stubble burned against stubble, tongues worked generous throats and hands moved and manipulated and wrought. 

Tom came first. It was a sudden thing. Ben’s hand was so firm, so wonderfully hot on him, and on an upward squeeze, Tom barely had time to gasp against his mouth before he was painting hot, white ribbons on his muscular thigh. 

While he was still shuddering, Benedict helping him all the way through, he felt the beautiful man shudder against him and cry out against his lips, reverberating through him and settling somewhere in his soul, and warmth spilled out on his stomach and chest. 

They sat for a moment, collecting air, breath moistening ears. 

Finally, Tom sat back a little, cheeks pinkened, and observed. Benedict looked wrecked, and that was just gorgeous. 

But before he could become too smug, the man sat back, having given one final fond squeeze to his oversensitised and deflating cock, and rumbled, “If you can’t afford a repairman, I may be able to help out.”

And Tom couldn’t help but crinkle his eyes shut and laugh.


End file.
